


wake

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Stiles returns home after completing his magical studies to find that he is slowly being replaced in the pack, and decides that he's not going to stay where he isn't wanted.Then, the world ends.





	

It started on a Friday.

Scott met Quinn when she was bringing her dog into the clinic for a checkup. Scott, being Scott, had struck up a conversation with the new girl, and quickly invited her to dinner that night.

The pack, though somewhat surprised by the intruder to pack night, put the move down to Scott's bleeding heart, and were polite and welcoming to the new girl. By the end of the night, it seemed like Quinn had been a part of the group forever.

Scott invited Quinn back the next week, and the next, and soon she was going shopping with Lydia, Allison, and Erica, or hanging out with Scott, Isaac, and Derek.

Three months after Quinn joined the pack, Stiles came home from his European magical mystery tour, having been sent overseas for a while to live with one of Deaton's cousins and learn about magic. He felt stronger and happier than he had been in years, and he disliked Quinn immediately.

If the pack was going for a run, Quinn would "thoughtfully" suggest that Stiles sit it out, since he couldn't keep up. If Quinn cooked for the pack, she'd "accidentally" forget that Stiles was allergic to nuts and make something that was loaded with them. If the girls were going out, he wasn't invited because he was a boy. If the boys went out, he wasn't invited because of werewolf reasons.

When he mentioned his concerns to Scott, the other boy said that Stiles had just been gone too long, and he just needed to settle into being pack again. Erica accused him of being jealous, Jackson called him a loser, and Derek just scowled at him.

Peter told him to quit being obtuse and recognize that the game had changed; he could either change with it or take himself elsewhere.

It stung, being pushed aside, but Stiles didn't take it personally because the pack had a lot more heart than brains, and Stiles was confident that, given enough time, he could break whatever influence the girl had on the pack.

He would have been correct, if not for Peter.

Stiles and Peter had always had a tenuous relationship based on the principle of mutually assured destruction: Peter was stronger and faster than Stiles, but Stiles was smarter, and willing to do whatever was necessary to win. In other words, if Peter killed Stiles, Stiles would take Peter with him. It worked for them.

Over the years, the subtle digs for information had turned to sarcastic jabs. The game between them changed so that they weren't searching so much for each other's weaknesses, but complementing each other's strengths.

If there were lingering glances, neither one of them acknowledged it. There was no fishing for compliments or backhanded requests for dates. They never touched unless it was absolutely necessary.

Which was why Stiles wasn't sure how to respond when he saw Quinn with Peter. The two of them were suddenly always together, planning out scenarios to deal with various creatures the pack might encounter. What previously would have been Lydia-Stiles-Peter research sessions turned into Lydia-Quinn-Peter research sessions. What would have been Peter seeking out Stiles turned into Peter finding Quinn instead.

Quinn touched Peter all of the time, and Peter didn't snarl at her or make any stinging criticisms of her intelligence. Quinn seemed to revel in the mind games that Peter loved to play, and encouraged him to play more. When Quinn and Peter threatened a small coven of witches into leaving town, the pack was actually _glad_ that they didn't have to deal with them. When Quinn and Peter came up with the plan to get rid of a rusalka in the lake by poisoning the water, everyone rolled their eyes at the dramatics but they did it anyway.

Stiles protected the town as best he could despite the pack, sometimes dealing with threats before Scott or Derek even knew about them. He certainly wasn't going to make the town suffer just because his friends were idiots.

Going the extra mile, though? Losing sleep researching something he'd never get to see because it was "too much" for a human? That, he was absolutely done with.

Stiles watched as the pack fawned over Quinn and felt nothing but sadness: for Scott, who was too trusting; for Lydia, who was smart enough to know better; for Derek, who was so easily deceived by women; for Peter, who was losing at his own game.

Stiles had no claim on Peter, but his heart cracked the first time he saw Peter guiding the girl with a hand at the small of her back. When he saw them making out like teenagers outside his favorite coffee shop, he knew he couldn't stay. And when Peter smirked at him and drawled, "See something you like, Stiles?"

It was too much.

There was no reason to stay in Beacon Hills anymore, especially when there were plenty of other people in the world who would appreciate him and his talents. Deaton tried to talk him into staying, of course. So did his dad, and most of the people at the station. When Brett offered to go with him, Stiles surprised himself by accepting.

The plan was to stay with Cora for a couple of months and enjoy Costa Rica, before Stiles started his "Magical Mystery Tour: South America Edition". Cora welcomed them with open arms, appropriately railed against her "stupid family", and showed Stiles the best vacation he had ever had.

Nine weeks later, Stiles and Brett hugged Cora goodbye and took a plane to Peru.

And then the world ended.

<> <>

It wasn't like in all of the doomsday movies. There was no asteroid or terrorist attack, just a flu. It wasn't even bird flu or swine flu, just an everyday drug-resistant flu that spread like wildfire until half of the people in the United States were ill.

Isolated as they were in a remote village in the Peruvian jungle, Stiles and Brett didn't know that anything was wrong. By the time the pair made it back to civilization a few weeks later, they were shocked to learn that three quarters of the population of most first-world countries was dead.

Things weren't completely hopeless, though. In more rural parts of the world, the flu was not nearly as damaging, if it struck at all, and even in urban areas, only ninety-five percent of people who caught the flu died.

That didn't stop Stiles from having a massive panic attack at the thought of never seeing his dad again.

"I doubt that most of the witch doctors we were going to visit will be taken out by the flu," Brett said pointedly, after Stiles's two-hour freak out had finally passed. "We could still come back."

"If we start walking now, we could make it in less than a year," he continued. "We could even stop and pick up Cora on the way. She can beat up Peter for you."

"It's an 8,000 mile trip!"

"So?" Brett argued, already mentally cataloging the necessities for their journey. "You're a wizard and I'm a werewolf. As long as you don't trip into something poisonous, we'll be fine."

<> <>

Of course, nothing goes precisely according to plan, especially during the apocalypse, so nearly three years passed before an exhausted Brett, Cora, and Stiles walked into Beacon Hills at 4:00 in the afternoon. Or, they would have, if not for the ward that surrounded the town, undoubtedly put up by Deaton.

"Can you break it?” Cora asked sharply, wincing when the ward shocked her.

"Yeah," he absolutely could, "but it's better to open a door than to break a window, so to speak. I don't want to disable their defenses if I don't have to."

Handing his things off to Brett, Stiles let his hands hover over the ward and closed his eyes. Trusting his packmates to stay alert, he sent a pulse of power out through his fingers and into the wards, searching for weak points. None of them were the least bit surprised to find that the weakest point was just a few feet from Deaton's office.

If Stiles had ever doubted that Alan Deaton cared for him, the shock on his face as they entered the clinic removed all doubt.

"I hope you don't mind that we used your door," he said, though the words were muffled into the other man's shoulder. The wolves got the same treatment before the vet ushered them into the break room and onto a sofa.

"People have missed you," he smiled brightly, "all of you."

Whatever else he might have said was drowned out by the sound of the door slamming open, followed by a familiar worried voice. "Deaton?"

Seconds later, Sheriff Stilinski appeared in the doorway. "Someone crossed the--" He stopped short at the sight of his son, before vaulting forward and pulling his boy into his arms.

"Hi, Dad."

The man let loose a sob, and held his son tighter. A little too tight, really. Not that Stiles was complaining. "I was so worried," he whispered.

"I missed you too." Stiles pulled away reluctantly, and gestured toward the others. "I had these two looking out for me." The Sheriff hugged them as well, and Stiles watched as his dad's eyes flashed yellow.

“Was it the flu?" he asked, when his dad turned back to him.

"Gunshot actually, about a year ago. Derek saved me." He grimaced. "I know they were unkind to you--"

"I'd rather have you as a living werewolf than a dead human, dad,” Stiles assured him. “As long as you're happy."

"I am now," the man promised, pulling Stiles back into his arms.

<> <>

Stiles wasn't sure what to think when his dad herded them toward his old house hours later. The three of them were beyond tired, though, so they followed with little complaint.

"I don't stay here much anymore," he said apologetically, "but the place is still mostly the same. You can think of it as your territory, if you need it. No one will complain."

"What about Quinn?” Brett asked skeptically.

"She died of the flu," the Sheriff said shortly. He glanced at Stiles, who was struggling to keep his eyes open, and who was currently being hugged by an equally drowsy Cora. "Otherwise, Peter would have run her off."

"Why?"

"Before the flu started," he started, guiding his three sleepy charges to Stiles's room, "everyone thought that you would come right home. I knew it wouldn't be that easy, but Scott was certain."

"We were in Peru,” Stiles offered. “It was a long walk." No one objected as Stiles's dad basically pushed them all onto the bed together. They didn't even bother using the covers.

"Then the flu happened. Scott was frantic." The Sheriff's eyes flared. "Quinn had the nerve to suggest that you were probably better off dead." At the trio's shocked faces, he added wryly, "I honestly thought Peter was going to kill her for a minute."

The trio's surprise was quickly superseded by exhaustion once more, and the Sheriff smiled gently as he watched them settle. "You three get some sleep. I'll hold everyone off until you're ready."

They were unconscious before he even left the room.

<> <>

By the time Noah made it back to the Hale house, the pack had nearly worked itself into panic about his absence, and only Deaton's assurance that the man was unharmed kept Scott and Derek from sending anyone after him. After losing Stiles, the pack had closed ranks, and even Scott had looked at outsiders with suspicion. Though they had eventually accepted a handful of new members, they were still extremely protective of each other, which meant that four hours was too long to be gone. Of course, if Noah thought that it was a very "Stiles" thing to do, he kept that insight to himself.

He was tempted to bypass the pack completely, but instead prepared himself for the tide of questions that would no doubt occur as soon as they smelled Stiles on him.

Despite the hour, the living room was packed, although most didn't bother looking up when he entered the room. Almost everyone was occupied with a movie, and Noah once again considered moving straight through the room toward the staircase when Peter's voice cut through the noise of the television.

"Noah?" Peter was watching the other man, eyes wide. "Why do you smell like Stiles?"

The reaction was immediate. The room was filled with gasps and yelling and the Sheriff was not about to deal with this circus. "SIT DOWN!"

Beta or no, Noah was not about to let anyone rush over and disturb his son. He shot the group a look that promised suffering for those who disobeyed.

"Stiles, Brett, and Cora came into town this afternoon," he answered simply, gaze sweeping the room. "They are staying at the house, and you will not disturb them while they recover." His glare dared anyone to argue.

Erica tentatively raised her hand. "Recover from what?"

"I'll look them over tomorrow," Melissa interrupted. Noah gave her a grateful smile. Scott looked like he wanted to say something, but a sharp look from his mother made him reconsider. "I think it's time for bed, don't you?"

<> <>

If anyone had asked later, Peter could not have described the moment that he realized that Stiles was still alive. He had noticed Cora's scent on the Sheriff first, a second before a different, but no less familiar, scent came to his nose. For a moment, he'd thought perhaps he was imagining things or that the boy’s spirit had finally come back to haunt him...

But then Noah had confirmed that Stiles was alive, in Beacon Hills, and Peter had stopped listening.

He wasn't like Scott or the other children in the pack--he would give Stiles and the others time before he visited. After all, Peter had believed that Stiles was dead for three years; surely, he could wait to see the young man a little while longer.

It turned out that waiting was much harder than he thought.

<> <>

Stiles and the others slept for two days. They didn't wake up when Melissa and Deaton came to check them over, or when Noah and Melissa spent the day cooking various meals so that Stiles, Brett, and Cora wouldn't have to when they started moving again.

Noah was up early for work on the third day, making eggs and bacon, when Stiles shuffled blearily down the stairs. He grabbed a glass of juice and dropped into a chair, just as he had done thousands of times before.

When he looked at his dad, both men's eyes were shiny. "Bacon's bad for your heart, Dad."

Noah cheerfully gave Stiles all of the bacon.

<> <>

Everyone was awake and doing well, according to Noah and Melissa. But Stiles and the others had made no attempt to contact Scott, Derek, or anyone in their packs. It had to be a special type of torture, Peter thought, for Scott to smell his best friend on his mother and not be able to do anything about it--Scott was going to start gnawing on the furniture soon if he got any more anxious.

For his part, the Sheriff wore his son's scent with pride, and he seemed to go out of his way to be in the same room as Peter. It was both comforting and very distracting. If Noah wanted something, he never said, but if this was to be a test of control, Peter was losing.

He gave in on day five.

<> <>

He probably should have expected the punch, although the fact that it came from Cora's fist was a surprise. By the time his nose had healed, the other two were watching him impassively from the living room: Stiles on the couch, and Brett hovering protectively on the armchair. Cora glared at him as she stalked toward her seat, but thankfully didn't attempt to hit him again.

Peter opened his mouth to tease Stiles about his guard dogs, then thought better of it. If Peter let him, Stiles would argue with him and ignore the problem for weeks, and that was unacceptable. He’d go crazy again if he had to wait any longer.

He pulled Stiles to his feet just a little too hard and, while the other man was still off balance, Peter leaned down and kissed him.

<> <>

Stiles froze for a moment, because he honestly hadn't expected Peter to move this fast, despite everything. Two thoughts shot through his head: _Finally_ , quickly followed by, _this_ _jerk_ _owes_ _me_ _an_ _apology_ , and he briefly considered shoving wolfsbane down Peter's pants before surging into the kiss instead. He deserved this.

Besides, he could always make Peter suffer later. He'd learned a lot since he'd been gone.

When they broke apart, Brett looked calmer, and Cora was smiling smugly, like she'd planned for this to happen. Stiles wouldn't have put it past her.

They watched each other for a couple of heartbeats, faces carefully blank, before Stiles smiled and leaned in again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the poem "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke.
> 
> I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
> I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.  
> I learn by going where I have to go. 
> 
> (For some reason, I find Brett adorable, so I had to put him in this fic.)
> 
> Next week: the next two chapters of "in perfect light" and an unrelated one-shot featuring Stiles, Lydia, and a certain suit-wearing Original vampire.


End file.
